


a last opportunity

by borisrings



Category: The Goldfinch - Donna Tartt
Genre: Gay, M/M, i cried, i love them, soft but sad, these two finally confess their motherfuckin feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-04
Updated: 2019-01-04
Packaged: 2019-10-04 11:10:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17303528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/borisrings/pseuds/borisrings
Summary: because the opportunities are meant to be seized and to be ignited with the fire of your existence.





	a last opportunity

**Author's Note:**

> hi! new fic about these two idiots. i love them very much. (((take tissues!))) enjoy!

Boris was looking at him — deeply.

 

He was reading a historical book on the charitable life of Carel Fabritius; and he was slowly turning the pages to the rhythm of the rain, which was strikingly against the window. His pale fingers patted his thigh, and he frowned occasionally, for a few seconds; Theo always made this gesture when he was thinking or when he was nervous: he touched the tip of his nose, straightened his glasses, frowned and lowered his head.

 

He yawned from time to time, but still read it again; he looked tired and lost — he might have been pretending to read after all. He looked at him every so often, above his glasses, and quickly looked away when he noticed that Boris was looking at him just as much, a smile on his lips. His cheeks turned pink, and he hastened to resume his reading at the word he had stopped. Yet it might have been more than fifteen minutes and he still had not turned the page, and his eyes were frozen on a sentence or image that seemed to have tormented him.

 

"Potter."

 

Theo slowly raised his eyes above his glasses, the rest of his face hidden by the book which was a little too big and impractical to be read on a second-hand sofa. Boris took his tea, which had boiled in his hands for a few moments now, to his lips, which attracted Theo's gaze. He straightened up his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and closed his book with a dry thud. Boris took a sip; the honey spread in his throat and warmed his body, and set the cup — _a Hello Kitty cup, Boris' house had a memory of one of his children before his wife left him for good_ — on the small table of living room on which Theo's feet were.

 

"Yes?"

 

Boris grabbed Theo's book — _rolled his eyes —_  and then plunged back into his velvet armchair, smiling mischievously whilst caressing the back of the book.

"Why are you pretending to read? Huh, Potter?" Theo rolled his eyes and slumped into the mustard sofa. Stroking his face, he took off his glasses and threw them vulgarly on to the glass table.

Boris stopped smiling suddenly — he knew this Theo well; it was the cold, hard and tormented Theo. He does not say what he thinks, he is controlled by an angry force filled with sadness, like a cold and rough wind which Boris could never put a name on.

"Potter, what happened?” Boris said softly as he approached Theo. “Do you... Well... You know what." He knelt down in front of the sofa, still holding the big book in his hand, and looked at the other boy, who was rubbing his temple. A terrible silence echoed in Boris' apartment, they could just hear the rain becoming more intense and brittle against the windows and the rubbing of Boris' fine fingers against the smooth and new cover of the book; a way to calm down and control his breathing.

 

Theo didn’t answer; Boris looked around him furtively, and his heart began to race. He really didn’t like this Theo, because this Theo was not funny, not happy — had he been happy since his departure? He did not know it, Boris had never asked him since their reunion in New York, maybe he would have known if he had sent those damn letters that remained unsent and rotted in his polished and shiny office, _things_ he was persuaded never to become.

 

"I'm just tired of New York," said Theo; his voice lifted Boris' head. He put his elbow behind the other boy's head and put his in his hand, leaving the book against his leg and bending his head to look at him in the eyes; but he had closed his eyelids.

Their faces were really close; Boris could feel Theo's irregular and heavy breath: he was overloaded with pain and mint scent; it was the lozenges. _"It's anti-stress lozenges, Boris"_ Theo grumbled when Boris made fun of him in Vegas, saying it was just throat lozenges. " _They are good, and they help me to sleep_.”

Boris knew he was wrong when he was woken up by Theo screaming, begging him to go get his mother and bring her back to him in the crook of his arms.

 

"Why do you keep taking this stuff, Potter? It does not work. I thought you'd realized it all this time." He laughed softly, looking down.

"You smoke to relax. It’s never worked for you either, as far as I know." Theo stopped massaging his temple and opened his eyes. He didn’t move when he saw Boris' face close to his; it only made him exhale softly, which caused Boris' heart to tremble — he just smiled.

"Maybe." said Boris, shrugging his shoulders.

Theo sighed and closed his eyes for the second time. "Ugh, sorry. I’m just—"

"Tired of New York. I get it. No no, it's okay, Potter. I understand."  Boris looked up at the ceiling, pretending to look for a buried idea— even though Theo's eyes were closed. He pretended to look because deep down inside he knew exactly what he wanted; it was the solution to everything, the key to a door leading to a new world, without indomitable Theo, minty lozenges or shy looks. "You just have to move here."

Theo suddenly opened his eyes, opened his mouth and frowned, but Boris went on to cut him off, his voice trembling: "No, no, I'm serious. You could move in here. You live almost here, you come over here every week..."

Theo cut him off. "Boris, I have a job. I have Hobie and Kit— Kitsey."

"Oh please do not tell me about your snow queen, Potter. Not after Amsterdam. "

"Boris..."

"Listen. Ask Hobie for holidays! And spend your time here...! "

"Boris."

"...You'll change your atmosphere for a few days, and it'll be good on you! No really, I swear!"

"Boris, you came to my house all the time, in Vegas, and you didn’t move in with us."

Boris snorted. "We were kids, Potter. We're adults now..."

"Are we, though?"

"Potter. Come on. Holidays. You need some. Huh? I'm serious. Look at you! A real corpse!"

Theo sat up slowly and plunged his head into his arms. Boris rested his chin on the boy's knee, which made him shudder and his body was crossed by a great chill, which cooled but warmed his heart.

"Come on Potter," whispered Boris, "Come on, it'll be like before. Trust me. You trust me, huh?"

Theo looked up. "I don’t know." He huffed slowly and shrugged. "You know... sometimes I think I see her in the crowd in New York. I think I see a white spot in that cloud of dark and unpleasant smoke that is New York: I see the coat she was wearing that day, like an angel in the middle of hell, you know?”

 

Boris, with his other hand, caressed his knee with gentle circles; he looked Theo in the eyes. Tears ran down Theo's pink cheeks now, but Boris didn’t  move. He waved his head gently, motioning for him to continue, while still caressing him.

"So I'm running. I follow this unknown woman with dense black hair and white waterproof. I run and run, then I see her with a child. It's a child with his mother, and that's when I realize that I've lost mine."

Boris took a long trail of air, exhaled and removed his hand from Theo's knee to get up. "Potter, you need to rest. A lot of rest. Ask for those damn holidays and stay here for a while."

Theo blinked; a few tears flowed due to the gesture but were dried by the hand of the boy who wiped his cheek, shaking his head. "Okay. I'll call Hobie tomorrow. I’m Sorry."

"No, no... Don’t be sorry. Please."

 

Theo rolled his eyes, smiling. Boris raised his hand and grabbed a tear that was about to sink and blend in with Theo’s shirt— it was a gesture that seemed to him so familiar that it destabilized him: everything seemed so clear and clean. Boris's apartment became Theo's in Vegas in his mind; and all the memories came to his throat: he breathed hard and fell on the ground under the immersion of senses and scents these memories contained: a mixture of bitter and pink caresses, the sweetness of a flower petal on a cheek and a twisted back, a light coming from the warm but cruel sun of Vegas illuminating honey-colored eyes, intermingling hair, chestnut and raven black, which contrasted with the off-white sheets soiled by a dirty but full of love dog, but unconscious of the dark and dry world that lived behind the window of the room filled with a lush, protective yet suffocating atmosphere.

 

"Boris, are you okay?"

Boris got up with difficulty and looked at Theo for a few seconds before sitting next to him, his hand still on his chest; he took a long moment to catch his breath.

"Yes, I'm fine, I have huh... Whatever. We should go to sleep. Yeah. To sleep, to rest." He got up mechanically, and Theo followed him so naturally that he had not asked any questions — he had always followed Boris from start until to finish in front of the taxi that night; but he would not repeat the same mistake this time: we are supposed to go where we are called, a kind of force or a feeling of light and trembling in the chest, which pushes you to the place where your soul belongs or where you feel safe, a house. And Theo knows that if he had known on that sidewalk in Vegas and in front of the taxi that this force was pushing him towards Boris — and in the hollow of his thin arms and against his chapped lips, he would have kissed him back.

 

* * *

 

When Boris and Theo were sleeping together in Vegas — _in other words, every day_ — it was like a game: they wondered who would be the first one to break the rules each time. Which one of them would; discreetly open their eyes and turn to observe the other, and if the urge took them — _it always took them_ — they would go to caress the other’s face, and comb their hair, with trembling fingers, ruffled after an alcoholic, starry and ghostly night. Who would wake up the other with lips on their neck or fingers in their hair, twisting greasy locks of hair? Who would caress the damaged chest of the other or whisper sweet words in the hollow of a sleeping ear?

 

Theo was the one who broke the rules most of the time — he never remembered it though: he did it the night the two boys drank so much they were unable to walk. Boris was often caught unaware by Theo's words when he woke him up. Most of the time it was just fingers that caressed his nose; the touch was not very pleasant, the fingers were sticky and irregular, but it was Theo, and it was good enough.

He often told him that he was handsome. Very often; but it was not a compliment like any other, it was something that seemed to tear his chest. " _You are beautiful to death, Boris._ " Theo was saying in his neck, mingling regret and laughter in his whisper. Theo was following the scars on Boris' chest with the pad of his finger, while saying incoherent things:

" _Tomorrow, we have to go to Central Park, Boris. We're only a few stations away,_ " or even _"Remind me to call mom tomorrow, otherwise she’ll forget to pick me up."_ It was breaking Boris' heart in a frightful way and he saw his world — _Theo_ — collapse in front of him, and he was just marble, eyes closed, trying to forget the rest and only feel Theo's breath on his icy skin. He never said anything; he couldn't. He was hypnotized by the other boy, and there was no English word that came to his mind to describe the state he was in; no words could describe this bitter but sweet mixture of Theo's breath, or the submergence of tenderness and intense pain of his touch drowning him, cutting off his breathing or the ability to open his mouth and to speak.

 

"Mom’s gonna love you, Boris. She wants me to find a good person in my life. She says to me: " _sweetheart, when I'll be gone, you will have to have someone to lean on_ ," blah blah blah. She's right. Because if she leaves, you see, I have no one left. So thank you, I guess."

 

_Alarming breath, pink lips, sun-eyes._

 

"Yes Boris! You are a good person. She’ll love you very much. She is in love with the stars, like you. You are going to get along well. You have the same hair color. That’s funny."

 

_Fingers in black curls, thrill, the scent of almond shampoo._

 

"She always told me that if I found a good person in my life, I had to keep them. That if they left, I had to join them. That if they made a mistake I had to forgive them, and if I went away but not them, I had to stay. One day, at least, to make sure I will see them again. You know?"

 

_Eye contact, intertwining fingers, close lips._

 

"Promise me that you will stay in my life. Now. Please Boris. I beg you. Do not leave me alone. Boris, please. Don’t abandon me. Don’t leave me, I beg you, don’t leave me, I don’t want to be alone, please... "

 

_The laughter become tears, and the smiles become a painful grimace._

_Jagged breaths, jaws clash, languages are lost, t-shirt on the ground, hands on the body._

 

"Promise me."

 

* * *

 

"Boris!"

 

Boris woke with a start, and the first thing he noticed was that Theo's voice, which had just woken him up, did not come from the bed, where it was supposed to be. He opened his eyes; Theo, already dressed with a cup in his hand, was looking at him with an exasperated look on his face— an expression that he had seen too many times in Vegas. "Damn, Boris, I’ve been trying to wake you up for five minutes."

Boris fell back into the mattress and ran his hands over his face, grunting. He heard Theo's footsteps on the floor, which meant that he had approached the bed, then felt the bed sinking next to his thigh. A shiver ran through his body, and his heart was pounding; he was close.

He realized, suddenly, that he was shirtless — _he did not remember being undressed though_ — and opened his eyes slowly to see Theo handing him the boiling cup.

 

"I forgot that you talk a lot in your sleep."

Boris blinked his eyes again and sat up against the wall, then grabbed Theo's cup; caramel tea. It was the same as Xandra, and he smiled softly thinking at a memory in Vegas — drunk, Theo and he threw all Xandra’s tea in the toilet and flushed it. Their hands rubbed and Theo cleared his throat. He straightened his glasses, touched his nose, then frowned; he was nervous. _Why is he so agitated?_ Boris thought.

"Oh. And what did I say ? Something interesting?" said Boris, taking a sip of the drink. "By the way, how did you find the tea?"

"I searched a little in your cupboards."

Boris smiled. "I see."

There was a moment of silence — but the silences of Boris and Theo had always been pleasant. They were moments when they communicated through looks, and that was enough. Sometimes it was too much; Theo's eyes plunged into Boris' mind, he could hear his voice and his supplicating and unsatisfied soul, and the silence became deafening.

"Did I say something interesting?" repeated Boris, speaking with difficulty; he didn’t look away from the other boy, and he could only hear his heart pounding in his chest: if Theo spoke to him maybe he wouldn’t hear him. He wanted to escape his gaze, but it was far too intense — he was looking for a distraction, something to say, something to think about, something to do; but Theo was monopolizing his thoughts, his heart and his mind and Boris could hear his own voice in his head: _"No Kotku to hand this time, huh Boris? You idiot."_

Theo ran his tongue over his lips and the time stopped, and Boris's body stiffened. _"Who broke the rules last night, huh Potter?"_

It was Theo who broke his gaze, turning his head away — _did he hear ?_ — and opening his mouth. "You were talking about me and..."

"Oh, I would not be surprised."

Boris went a little closer and laughed.

"What do you mean?"

Boris rolled his eyes and touched the gray, silky suit jacket Theo was wearing, and moved his hand over his shoulder.

"Where are you buying them? Huh, Potter? Very beautiful. Very silky."

"You change the subject. Like, every time." Theo freed himself from Boris' hold, and the latter lowered his head.

"Potter..."

"Boris, this time I'm not running away."

Boris ran his hand over his face, breathing heavily. "I know. I know." Boris said while putting the tea cup next to the bed.

"I'm tired, Boris. Of this."

"Potter... Hey, where are you going?"

Theo stood up suddenly, and instinctively Boris followed him into the apartment.

"Potter! Jesus! Are you going to stop walking that fast? Potter! _Pozhaluysta_!"

 

Theo turned abruptly and Boris stopped.

 

Popchyk, brought by Theo the day before and who had slept since, looked up from the couch. The dog felt the tension in the space: a hungry tension that devoured every bit of air in the room, but that brought the two bruised and devastated hearts of the two people in front of him closer together: a man in pajama bottoms with just a gray ring adorning his hand pointed at the other boy, who was in a soft and soothing costume, but who in him was drowsing a hurricane accompanied by a sea of tears unleashed.

 

"I’m just—"

"Tired of New York! I know!"

Boris moved closer, his throat tightening.

"It's not _only_ that! It's not _just_ this, Boris!"

"But I can’t help if you don’t tell me anything! Talk to me!"

 

There was a moment of silence. It was not so comfortable this time: Boris felt sweat running down his back, and his hands fiddled with the knot of his pajama bottoms. He could hear the apartment's ungovernable clock, similar to the one in the boy's room in Vegas— Boris, remembered the rhythm of his body above Theo's at the rhythm of the _tick tock_.

_"Promise me."_

 

Theo looked down, and his voice weakened. "I… I can’t." He stroked his neck, and Boris moved a little closer.

"I know. But I will not be able to say it for you. You know that? Huh? Good."

"Jesus, I'm just... I can’t."

 

Boris grabbed his shaking hands, which made Theo's head rise, and he gently smiled, and with his gaze, he suddenly put Theo at ease— it was perhaps Boris' power, this ability to make him feel comfortable as quickly as he could open a beer can: a click, a look, a refreshing drink in a dry throat, and an open heart.

 

"Boris I'm just... I'm just… I’m just so in love with _you._ " whispered Theo, painfully.

 

Those moments, the moments when Theo let his emotions show were not that rare. It was only when he was sober that they were. Boris knew it and learned to live with it. From the first weeks, from the first nights spent together in Vegas, Boris had discovered this boy who had been asking since the beginning of help and suffered to make Boris cry: he woke up screaming at night, tore the sheets leaving salty tears on his pillow, his hands trembling so much that they could not even lift himself from the bed; Boris had learned to live with and did not let him down. So he learned to live with the words of a non-sober Theo, which made him capsize his heart the first time, but which had in a way hardened it through the months and hot and icy nights, fed by heavy sobs.

 

Boris didn't move an inch.

 

"I’m sorry." Theo freed his hands from Boris', and made his way as fast as he could to the door of the apartment. Popchyk straightened his head, and Boris hurried to the boy and grabbed his sleeve to bring him back to him.

"No no, no, you will not run away like that, Potter, not again. I..."

"Let me go. It was a mistake. I'll go. Now." He hissed at Popchyk but the dog did not move from his place.

"You see! Even Popchyk agrees. It's good _poustyshka,_ brave dog."

"Boris... I have to go. If you don’t want to see me, I understand... "

"Potter."

"...I will find something to do to distract myself from New York..."

"Potter… Stop."

"...I will not bother you, I promise..."

"Theo."

 

He raised his head to hearing his first name— it is true that Boris never called him that, only during rough episodes where Theo wanted to let go and when his sadness was taking over, and he knew that he would react to his agreement. It was an alarm, a sign, a kind of _"shut up, it's serious this time.”_

 

"Theo, you idiot, I love you too."

 

Then it was obvious: the tension burst into a thousand pieces, and the symphony in their hearts began. It was surely the most painful feeling that Boris ever felt, but when he felt Theo's lips slamming against his — _wild and excessive action_ — this pain gave way to an opening to all senses and colors, and passions. Theo's rosy lips contrasted with Boris', which remained purple because of the cold, creating a completely incompatible but obvious mixture that Boris wasn’t able to feel anything at all — he could not breathe or move. When he freed himself, he murmured on Theo's lips a melody that made the boy's heart dance: " _I am in love with you_ " and the smallest boy kissed him again, and perfumed Boris’ body with his cologne, and he caressed his chest, and it was wilder, and more dangerous, but so beautiful and poignant, that he ended up crying, it was too much and too overwhelming. Tears mingled with their kisses, and Boris kissed each one of them; the jaws clashed, and the fingers ventured on the bodies.

 

 _"Ya lyublyu tebya."_ Theo whispered into Boris's hot ear as he pressed him to the bed. The sheets were impregnated with their bodies and sank with each kiss, each electroshock. Boris raised an eyebrow, smiling. "I learned Russian, in New York."

"Mmh... Interesting."

_"Ty plokhoy zhulik."_

Boris gently slapped his shoulder. "You just insulted me, fucking asshole!"

Theo laughed at losing breath, and Boris joined him.

"You don’t even know how to pronounce correctly, _glupyy_!"

"You’ll teach me. Like in Vegas."

"Of course I'll teach you, Potter."

"Good."

" _Good_."

 

New silence. Boris smiled so much that his cheeks ached, he was stuck, and the way Theo looked at him wasn’t helping— his eyes had never shone so brightly.

 

"You are beautiful to death, Boris."

 

And Boris kissed him again, and this time he will not let him run away.

 

* * *

 

 

The opportunities that life can offer are rare— they are limited and only appear to those who need to survive: like a reason to continue to wake up everyday. A word, a sentence, a gesture, short and innocuous things of everyday life: paying a drink for an unknown woman who would become the love of a life, not breaking a look, a hand not to letting go. We can never know when these opportunities happen or unfold at a particular time, it's up to us, to let our souls get carried away and fall into a mountain of unknown colors and flavors, a mix of exciting and scary mysteries at the same time, shaking hands and waving hearts. We can answer yes or answer no, certainly, but it is our instinct that chooses for us: clicking on a button to send a dangerous text, pulling the trigger, or pressing our lips on someone else’s. Then we regret, we hope that it will be enough to survive; we wait, we think, we pray and we cry. A head leaning against a bus seat, two earphones in the ears this time, the person we love has disappeared: we all have the choice: we can stop the music and make a sign to the driver to stop the vehicle and to leave, or, we can close our eyes, and ignore our pain and let our heart sink into an intense tragedy in which we are the main character.

 

Everything sticks to a thread and everything depends on it, you can break it with a pair of scissors or wrap it at the end of the finger and press it against the chest. You have to seize the opportunities. You can lose everything but the next day you can win even more with one opportunity well used— and if it disappears, it will always come back, because it is your soul that will always be attracted where you belong and where your existence means something. We can not change who we are, our desires, our despairs and our misfortunes, but we can change and decide _to live_ and not _to survive_ ; two different bitter terms that can change many destinies.

 

Because the opportunities are meant to be seized and to be ignited with the fire of your existence.

 

* * *

 

 

"Potter." Boris kissed Theo's mole on his shoulder and bent over what Theo had been writing since he'd woken up.

"What are you writing, _moya lyubov'?"_

Theo smiled softly as he meets his gaze, which will never stop spinning him into a mix of intense fullness.

"I change the end of the story. I seize the opportunity I missed last time."

 


End file.
